


I Can Wait

by Righ (Venenum)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Gen, drabbles because drabbles, father/son perspective, weeps on mirkwood elves forever tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venenum/pseuds/Righ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is granted a full life, albeit one of trial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Wait

The amber lanterns cast small pockets in warm shadows where they hang here and there from the limestone boughs far above, tiny worlds wherein elves laugh and make merry, their silvery voices filtering into whispers. She is all golden hair, so much richer than his own, and green eyes that pick out every shimmer of her dress as the she-elf rushes from walkway to walkway, a river of springtime that he finds both distracting and fascinating.

He has known her for years, of course. The Elvenking's gaze slides away from those who are talking in chairs around the enomous hearth of the great hall to fix on her as she spins under one of the lamplit spots, her companions darting in and out with a single touch as they play their game; she never once stumbles, always chases the offender and wheels around to pat the next, and then they are off again, rushing up the staircases as if given wings.

She is loud and gay and captivating, and for the first time since his father's death, it seems to him that he understands precisely what that means.

* * *

The first time they kiss it is summer and she has flowers in her hair, a twine of pink and purple that seem to crown her with more authority in their simplicity than the carefully woven ornamental crown wrought for him and he alone. Her cheek is soft against the backs of his fingers and her breath is dewy and clean, so much so that he gives up resisting her charms and pulls her in close with a strong hand on her slender waist, the muffled whimpers she tries to quieten causing him to sigh his confession of love.

Foreheads align and noses brush back and forth, smiles mingling in sweeter kisses, hands furling on his pale robes and in the laces at the back of her green gown. Green, green, _always green_ , in the wild trees and waters of the river and wreathed walls.

That colour will be the death of him, he loves it so.

* * *

Legolas.

Tiny and thoughtful, even for an elven child, the babe has the Elvenking's hair and eyes but his mother's kind smile, spluttering a little when he laughs. His ears are perfect little leaves, which is only appropriate given the kingdom he is born to. The old Greatwood's new little Prince, Sindar with a Silvan name. The Queen teaches him to run without falling, to jump (in a wealth of skirts each) over puddles and how to creep so quietly it makes even their lord startle.

In a fit of restless affection after a difficult day, he captures his lady and their laughter draws out their son from who-knows-where. The result is his family swept up in voluminous sleeves, kisses raining on identical rosy cheeks and shrieks of pleasure as they topple back onto cosy furs, a mess of long legs and too much hair and not enough humility for a single victor. How strange, he thinks, that two people can so easily know how to fit perfectly in the protection of his arms while squirming so much.

* * *

The palace is silent and grim, only a handful of the amber lanterns permitted to bathe the mourning realm in uniting grief. The spiders are dead, he saw to it himself. The largest nest of any witnessed since the monsters crawled into the forest in greater and greater numbers, their foul stench withering the goodness of the wood and putting a deep decay into the bones of the trees, bent and broken like the Elvenking in these days of loss. He can hear singing in the halls beyond of a fair lady lost and dark days approaching.

Legolas curls up on his chest and says nothing, damp eyelashes fluttering half-open as he sleeps in the encircling arms of his father, gentle fingers stroking soft locks and rubbing slow, soothing circles on the small elfling's back through not only nightclothes but an extra cradle of the Elvenking's over-robe, a cocoon of possessive, fearful love. He has cried himself silent, much like his father above who stares unseeingly into the middle-distance of the room, unable to even conceive of the meaning of laughter and joy though it has been absent mere hours. Lips kiss a hot brow, whispering words of peace and sanctuary.

 _We will remain behind the gates. None shall leave._ He thinks back to the words of his own father and shuts his eyes tight, gentle with his son as with a trembling, motherless fawn. _Do not be frightened, my love._

Yesterday, he had everything. Today, he does not have the luxury to demean the value of what has, once more, merely survived.

* * *

He wants to go. Is saddled hours before dawn, even. A blur of greens and greys as he races through the palace, Legolas slows obligingly as he meets with his personal guard and they approach the dais as one unit, a playful smile barely suppressed. From high on his throne, the Elvenking descends and bids the company bound for Imladris to carry with them his goodwill and authority. 

The tension in Legolas's shoulders eases when his father steps in close and places a light, almost ceremonial kiss on his brow. In it is a protective wish.

 _Come home when your journey reaches its end,_ the Prince is told, and he dutifully replies, _Yes, Your Majesty._

He is gone far, far too long for any news from Elrond or Galadriel to bring peace of mind in the ensuring year, which is strangely arduous and lengthy for the elves of Mirkwood who now rally together when the Enemy tries to set their world alight. Their lord is restless and starved for word of his son, no matter how he comes by it, and when Legolas returns with a dwarf there is so much to be discussed that it seems the Gates will never be re-opened ever again until the Elvenking has heard every scrap of the story, a hand gripping tightly to the arm of his chair all the while.

* * *

It is a thousand years since he heard the tinkling laughter of his child or looked into eyes as blue as his own. He is old and Eryn Lasgalen is rich with life, the elves little more than a legend in Arda and he is unwilling to travel south to discover whither the last of Celeborn's people scattered. The wind takes with it all who dare walk in the world of mortals these days, it is better to stay secluded and walk in the shade or the corner of an eye.

From a book long left undisturbed on the end of a shelf, out falls one day a strip of blond hair tied tightly with a slim green ribbon. The token is not golden but a pale echo of his own and shorn from a tiny head where the locks tangled with twigs one day in the woods during a feast. The little elfling had squeaked and complained, wrinkled his nose and promptly wrapped the little gift for his father to keep safe. Forgotten, it has not lost its youthful lustre between the pages of an old storybook; its scent is leaves and earth mixed with something that makes the ancient Elvenking's eyes sting with a sudden heat.

Ordinarily squared shoulders are bowed low over his lap and he holds his hands to his face, the lock of hair cupped by closed lids that block out the changing world. If he listens hard enough, he can hear a fond voice calling, _Ada._

His fist tightens.

* * *

A thousand more years on, he is laid to rest under the beloved amber lamps that have watched his life's greatest joys and sorrows come and go, heart-broken under the weight of too many fading memories. He will not sail West, not while his wife's bones rest in this land, not even to look upon his son. Thranduil knows his child is safe and happy, a parental instinct.

Patience finally comes to an end, and a different set of Halls open to him.


End file.
